The Mime
by Crystal Dew
Summary: "I wish I could say my abilities come from effort and dedication alone, but I know they aren't. I'm very aware they aren't."
1. The odd child

The near-setting Sun casts orange light upon Nikeah.

Gogo does not need to look to see what is going to occur, soon enough: the sailboat of that lobster aficionado will arrive from South Figaro, as it does every Marden; Aliana will close her pottery shop stand for the day; the Fishing Five will come back with a net and a half full, maybe dragging a rare kind along; a Mobliz-descended eccentric will take out his banjo at the street corner and play to signalize the start of the evening; the tourists start heading out of the inns, and the passerbies head into the inns to stay the night before sailing early the next day.

The boy knows this, all of this, because he rarely stays inside.

What's there for him, inside his house? Parents, perhaps. But they are exactly what he wishes to avoid, being outside like this.

The simple memory of his parents make his teeth clack together in a cringe. Inconsiderate, inconsiderate. Fought over anything, and it was his fault, too, he knew it; the Nikeans had said before, to him, that it wasn't as bad, this pointless bickering, before he had been... "born". Gogo knows he wasn't born normally, must not have been. With the way he is now, how can he think otherwise?

Out in the city, he felt more like a free individual. Could talk to all sorts of people, earn knowledge from all over the world. It was much more than his parents could teach him.

As night falls, Gogo's stomach growls. _At least mom and dad feed me, _he shook his head.

They greet him inside with an acknowledging glance, and the boy wonders if there is something amiss because even that tends to be rare.

"Tomorrow we will have to depart for a few days to Vector. His Majesty Gestahl wants fine monuments around the city." the father explains; an offhand comment. Gogo takes the warning with near indifference, since he's never allowed to go on these trips anyways, not since his seventh birthday.

In his bedroom, he passes through a mirror – he almost shattered it, before, was slapped hard for it, it's just a bit broken now – and pauses, that brief pause he always does but shouldn't.

His own eyes catch his attention first; they are a bright olive green, one of the only parts of him seen when he covers his face with cloth like that. A fringe of hair, not that brown yet not orange, falls over one of his cheeks. He's going to turn away – _it's enough, now _– but of course he doesn't do it quick enough.

There are the stripes, red stripes. Five of them, lining his face in equal intervals; two by the sides of his eyes, two crossing his lids and then cheeks, one that follows the line of his nose. The only ones he can't hide fully.

Why hide, one would wonder- simply get some water and rub them off. But it's not paint, he's tried to scrub the red away so much, with all sorts of materials, sometimes until it hurt, until it bled. The skin that recovered afterwards, however, was still that red.

Nobody has these, it's not normal. So what was he, a monster? Were those stripes the reason his parents regarded him as a mistake, an accident? He growled low under his breath, clenching gloved hands.

Of course, if anyone asks, he says it is a strong paint.

By the next morning, when Gogo chooses to rise later than he usually does, his parents are already on a ferry, likely parting to Albrook. He is fully alright with that, really, only grieving the fact he could be seeing more of the world if he was allowed to travel with them. They leave him some gil so he can at least eat out when he's hungry.

This is a thriving trade town, so of course people are already up and about by this hour, opening shops or simply taking a walk. Here, many can afford to choose when they open business and when they don't.

The lonely boy sits on the stone steps outside his house, watching the usual movement. People always have something to talk about, don't they? He picks up that honest joke from the air: _"If only these pushy Vectorians weren't this imposin', the rest of the world would be learnin' Nikean right now!"_

He's about to grin at that, when brisk movements at the corner of his eye catch his attention, drawing in his gaze.

Oh. It's only those three.

Zooming past people carelessly (they get a curse from a tourist; Gogo cannot say whether the man is from Tzen or Figaro, given the languages' similarities), the three troublemakers get to him with smugness already strapped onto their faces. They seemed oddly excited today.

"Haie, Gogo-go. We saw your parents taking off at the port. Going to be alone again?" there isn't malice in Dorib's tone, just underlying purpose.

"Na'am, it seems." he wondered what card they kept up their sleeve, now. These boys have acted as comrades to him in the past, but they also mocked him, playfully and not. His androgynous voice had been target of such mockery before.

"Great! That means you're free for us?"

Gogo raises an eyebrow. "Free for what?"

The unspoken leader, Al'Misha, explains in a whisper: "We want to check out Elmire's hidden recipes! We will know things nobody else does. Aren't you the knowledge-eater here?"

"Huh." Elmire is a famous chef in town, and there are countless rumours going on about him, including his 'heavenly' recipes. Which aren't let out to the public, of course. Trying to take a peek at said recipes would be selfless and irresponsible.

"We need your help to distract people so they won't catch us."

"Sorry, I'm not in." Gogo replied decidedly.

"Aw, come on, we can do it!"

"No, and no."

Al'Misha frowned. "Don't be such a pain."

Gogo frowned. "Don't be such a pain."

An odd silence took place between them, and brief looks of surprise were exchanged. The striped boy blinked, puzzled. Had that... come from him? He sounded exactly, _exactly _like Al'Misha, and he could swear it was the troublemaking boy that had said the phrase twice.

"Did you just say that?" Al'Misha murmured towards him.

"Did you just say that?" the voice was not Gogo's, but now there was no doubt that the words came from Gogo's mouth. He had even felt an odd tickling sensation at his throat. And why had he spoken, even, if he hadn't even chosen to?

"Don't imitate me."

"Don't imitate me." Gogo repeats, almost unconsciously- the unusual vibrations are there, controlling his vocal chords again – and the boy seems noticeably more weirded out now.

"Stop being weird." the leader-boy uttered, though there was no strength in his tone now. Gogo has to swiftly grasp at his own mouth to keep from saying anything, because he already felt the vibrations start up again. His eyes widen in a small panic.

"Bump on you later," the youths offered their informal goodbye, maybe finding the situation too strange to cope with, running off in the direction of the port and leaving him alone again.

Releasing his lips slowly, Gogo thought; _What... was that?_


	2. Knowledge is control

**Notes: **Sorry for the wait. That's common with me though. If something bothers you, reader, criticism would be nice, especially for this mix of present and past tense which I can't control properly.

The chapter is not as originally planned. I supposed for the second chapter to contain a much greater timespan, but stories easily get out of my control, and they always turn out much longer and more detailed than I'd first planned. Which is kind of a hindrance. But I wanted to add something to this soon to show it's not dead. What was supposed to be the rest of the second chapter will become the third instead, it seems.

* * *

Maybe a sane person would rather choose to stay the farthest from this new subject as possible.

There was nothing driving Gogo on to pick it up again, if not for the fact he had already accepted himself as something extra-human and there was no backtracking from that.

He allowed his legs and blank mind take him near the port, few steps away from the sea. Seagulls and gaviots swarmed around it; where there were people, there was food. Not that fishers or sailors were paying them any heed now.

A merchant, owner of some goats out the city outskirts for all he's heard, is the person closest by, making some salt and conversing with a sailor. Gogo unconsciously concentrates on their speech.

"Some cattle in Tzen have died recently. They say it musta've been disease. Are your goats faring healthy?"

"My beauties are fine! I always put some drops of potion in their water. Happy bunch. My milk and meat are top notch fo' the market. Even the snotty nobles of Jidoor like 'em."

The boy was thankful for the seawaves' noisy orchestra, because as soon as he opened his mouth, he was mumbling: "...Happy bunch. My milk and meat are top notch fo' the market."

And that was it. That _was it._ The voice that left his throat was that of an adult man's. Gone had been the trace of androgyny his own tone possessed.

He was so gone in it, to be frank, he wasn't noticing the movement of his arms; left one curled in the air, right hand doing swift jerks as though he held something in it. Gogo froze immediately when he realized.

"Haie boy, you wanna learn?" the merchant called towards him with a crooked smile. His left arm was holding the shallow ceramic box, his right hand stirred the salt and water in it with a large spoon.

Gogo's eyes widened briefly, before he composed himself and offered, "Lha, I just... found it interesting."

"Alright. You look funny." the man's smile opened further.

Unsure as to how to answer to that, Gogo nods, then turns around and walks in the opposite direction, looking out at the sea.

His memory was still fresh. "Happy bunch.", he utters, and again it isn't his voice the one to speak.

Just what, _what_ the hell was wrong with him?

* * *

He has considered growing up to become a chemist. Mixing up ingredients and sauces and herbs yielded him a lot of fun in his younger days, and now that he bothered to check actual recipes (could even manage to make a weak potion) it proved much more rewarding.

Gogo had also been able to fabricate an acid, which had the property of melting stone besides other things, but his parents hadn't used it much.

This early mixture knowledge was at least good for him to thrive well with what he had to eat at home; no meal would be boring this way, if he could have the right sauces. Some ingredients that seemed to be awful, and nobody would dare put among their food, tasted actually pretty good if mixed with some specific types.

... Hmm.

Gogo stared at the sour, sour seed.

Does not match with the common foodstuffs... but if it's blended with some rare ones...

He absentmindedly slid a finger against one of his stripes.

* * *

Mom and dad are still on the southern continent. He can go wherever he wants, as he pleases.

It's as if the hustling of the city had become much less interesting, much less attention-grabbing than it once was. A couple of days ago, Gogo could keep his focus on others' activities, but now his attention waned considerably. He had ears to sounds and voices, but not to meanings; he had eyes for specific movements and their mechanisms, not the scenario in a whole.

... How could he even be a good mime, when he had never practiced before?

Gogo headed out of the city, northwards, where silence prevailed over constant noise. The only prying eyes were usually dull and would not bother him.

A large bird landed on a tree branch not too far away, folding its wings back into place. It's what the boy came here for.

He focuses on the bird with all his might, nearly feeling dizzy because his body started feeling numb. It wasn't a sensation he could describe if he tried.

The bird turned its head around, checking the surroundings. Gogo did so, too; his eyes fixed and unmoving, only the craning of his neck to guide the way. His arms are bended oddly, almost painfully, to mimic the wings.

It glances and gazes at him, and a couple seconds later a pair of olive-green eyes stare back. His breaths are coming out short and quick - he can't control that.

And then the bird flies away, quickly as that; the boy gets a light-headed sensation and doesn't catch what is going on until he is on the ground, arms and jaw throbbing in pain.

As human consciousness returned to him, Gogo tried to reason that there should be a way for him to control how much or how little he should mimic from others. If he'd forced a halt onto his concentration, he could have kept from attempting the flight.

This could be really dangerous if he had been near a cliff, sincerely.

He stood, stretching his arms. Could he imitate the bird again, from memory, if he tried?

Crossing his arms tightly so they would not move, Gogo focused on the memory of the vulture. As he did so, every other thought started being driven from his mind. _He was a bird, a bird._

Pupils becoming unmoving again, arms feeling notable discomfort in their position (they instinctively wanted to fold back but couldn't), the boy had lost most of his consciousness. It really was a strange sensation, but during the experience, he had no true emotion to react to it.

He moved his neck as the memory "told him" to, as the bird had done. Gogo at least noticed this, and so made a great effort to turn towards a different direction, one the vulture hadn't tried... But his eyes were moving now, his body tense; the concentration had been broken.

The youth snarled quietly. Of course this was much more difficult than he'd first wagered.

After that instance, his eyebrows furrowed a bit. Why was he getting angry over... that? Outworldly mimicking was something he'd only known he was capable of very recently. Besides, he was only doing this out of raw curiosity.

... Was he?

_Of course not. I think I just want to be special, instead of a curse._

He chuckled, graceless.

_That's why I have to get better._

Gogo was very sincere with himself. He was so self-conscious as an individual that, if he even tried to turn away from the truth, it would just bite at his heels instead.

* * *

Deeper in the forest, he found a Mu rodent; a cub, thankfully. Its pack was sleeping soundly atop large tree branches.

Mus were courageous pests; they thought their teeth could maul through anything. A child wasn't as threatening.

Gogo neared it already in focus; crouched, on all fours. He was slowly becoming used to how much more blank his mind became in this sort of state. The Mu's ears perked up and its nose began twitching, scenting the air. The boy's ears and nose felt some tremor, trying to do the same.

The back of his spine also tingled with a lack of tail. It made him feel somewhat empty.

When the little animal began running around the trees, Gogo mirrored it, almost as if chasing it, anatomically different legs working precariously to keep up. It was really difficult not to trip as the rodent's movements were quick, too quick, and despite his rapidly beating heart, his limbs were too big to keep up.

Eventually, he tripped, and surely enough his concentration was broken fully.

Practicing with animals was tricky.

Propping himself up on dirty forearms, Gogo noticed he hadn't gotten far. Could still see the tree with Mus napping on. The cub had climbed it.

Not at all cautious, the young thing woke up a few of its older counterparts as it nailed upwards, scared.

The boy watched with some mild interest as the rodents woken made a messy stirrup, and a couple of them who hadn't bothered going back to sleep sniffed and glanced around. The skimpier of the two made a growly noise and climbed down the trunk.

Maybe he should move away, now. That thought was a distant one, however, not enough to connect with his limbs and make him move. When he did move it seemed odd and threatening, some wild arm flailing as he made to sit up despite the stubborn aching legs. A little growl came in response to that, and a glance told him the Mu was fluffed up to appear bigger and scarier, very close to him already. Getting friskier the more Gogo tried to actually stand.

This was- panic inducing. The boy focused on the being in hopes of ending up with something that would help him. Those angered eyes. That ready-to-attack posture.

The Mu emitted a high-pitched squeak, and Gogo's imitation of it was flawless. That made the Mu disoriented but more irate, and it hesitated little before lunging in to bite.

The boy barely saw that. He only took anything into account when his teeth were pressing against tender flesh and an odd taste invaded his mouth.

Whatever he was biting, he released, brain in a mess; the creature ran away in a burst of desperation.

Gogo tasted some blood in his mouth, a small amount. Backing off from the clan tree, still shaky with fear, things started clearing up, the "out-of-himself" daze fading.

The ear. He'd bitten the ear. It doesn't matter where the Mu was aiming for, that's where _he_ attacked. It was certainly not a perfect mirroring of the action, because he didn't feel himself be bitten at all. He had been confused between focusing on the mimicry and defending himself somehow.

This was good news, in a way. It meant he wasn't bound to doing exactly the same things the object of mimicry did, hopefully.

His backwards walking had led him to a pond, a simple location which gracely held part of the world's beauty.

Gogo looked down at himself in the water's reflection. He hadn't changed in the slightest, physically. Not any more demoniac-looking than he was when he was three.

While gazing at the illusion of colour in the surface, the boy attempted to re-voice that warning squeak he had been given, and after a very close attempt, the sound came out the exact same.

Strange, how he looked and looked, and it was truly him the non-human sound came from. Lowering his mouth cloth, he did it again, observed with vagueness (he still had to concentrate on the memory of the Mu) the lips that opened small and brief to let the sound out.

Gogo plopped down on the grass. What to do? Did this serve any purpose? If he could master this art, it would certainly be amazing.

Lost in thoughts about the future, the boy had barely noticed movement around; a lobo had approached leisurely and was drinking the pond's water.

He tensed up, but then was reminded of a saying of their region: 'Do not fear the wolf who is sated, but do not push it, either, for it is still a wolf.'

And truly enough, when Gogo focused on the beast, he felt a salve of warmth, of fullness. As if he'd just eaten a big meal, was happy and needed nothing else. It made him feel further drowned in the daze.

The lack of tail and moveable ears wasn't even bothering him; Gogo was already licking at the water, feeling some odd sort of sated bliss. This lobo wasn't aggressive at all. It was content to be alive and with a full stomach.

Soon the animal lifted its head and walked away among the trees. The boy followed it, and this time the difficulty proportioned by different hinder legs bothered him much less as well.

The lobo was sniffing the air almost uninterestedly as he paced – nearly trotted – about. Gogo couldn't quite pick up the scents, but he didn't need it; if something was amiss, he would feel it instead.

Everything felt dynamic, yet distant. A really pleasant sensation. No right place to be, or future, just the moment. The forest didn't look frightening at all through the emotions of a beast who would alone walk through the labyrinthic vines and roots even at night.

Still casual, the creature stopped to sniff at an old bush. Gogo was some ways behind him, and as such sniffed at the nothing instead. He truly was lost in daze and felt no hurry at all to regain his thoughts.

The scent seemed the least mildly interesting, and the lobo positioned himself in an exquisite way, slightly raising a hinder leg. Despite the difficulty with equilibrium, the boy mimicked it.

It was just a very short moment later, when he picked up a sensation of wetness and relief that did not belong to the creature that his concentration came crashing down.

Gogo's heart leapt to his throat as he grasped the wet patch in his pants, shivering with some sort of dread. The wolf was walking away casually, but the boy didn't even think to give it a second glance.

_By the ocean's endless waves, this shouldn't happen._ But why not, too? He did mimic everything he could, the same happened with the other animals. He couldn't quite- control it. This truly was worrisome. To have his concentration only broken by sharp pain or a startle just wouldn't do. He needs more practice.

Trying to settle his racing heart and brief sensation of panic, Gogo glanced upwards to the sky. It was probably near midday, which meant his stomach would call him back to the city sooner or later in need of food. _At least finish relieving yourself while you are out here, and wash that, and make your clothes look less crumpled, how're you going to explain those, _a voice grumbled in his head.

He feels he hasn't heard thoughts his own for a long while.

This is only the first day. _Only the first day, _he muses.

* * *

That night and most of the next day, Gogo is too sore and with memories too blurry to think about practicing further. Eats little, moves little, and thinks even less.

* * *

It's been a couple of days. His memory is as clear as a raindrop.

He can re-do the vulture's tilting, the Mu's noise, the lobo's trot. He can mimic Al'Misha's voice and the merchant-shepherd's prideful tone.

Maybe that sensation of illness was all worth it, then- he was only excited to learn more and more.

Gogo finds a cat before leaving the city, and thinks to chase it to use it for his practicing. He supposed it wouldn't be too bad, since it was ridiculously early in the morning and his mimicking would likely only attract amusement if anyone did see him.

He focuses on it, and is soon using his four limbs to walk ahead. Cats loathe being followed, and this one is no different, speeding up its pace upon noticing the boy behind it.

As with the mu cub, the size difference here proved to be troublesome. Gogo's legs and arms were larger than the feline's, so he caught up to it easily, yet the closer he got, the faster the cat attempted to walk. And when it got faster, so did Gogo, in a cycle which left the cat unsettled; he could feel that.

Soon enough, though, the cat darted into a thin opening between crates, and the boy, still with a feline's confidence over him, whammed onto the boxes head-on.

Nobody came to help the strange boy clutching his clothed head in pain. That was good news. Or not.

This is a reminder of what he should learn now, though- when to stop.

* * *

The forest is, again, inviting. Predators rarely come around the outskirts of the town, given Nikeans' notable fierceness when trying to defend their products.

Usually, they could find deers, doves, caladriaes, hares, salamanders, and other sorts of colorful animals, so he had plenty to practice with before he even dared risk it with humans again.

After all, people observed and criticized- these critters only had eyes for movements and menaces.

Gogo had come in another direction now, to the thicker forest- though still not quite comparable to those lush green seas of trees near Zozo. Nikeah prides itself with it nonetheless.

He finds his ways through the tall trees, the twisting trunks and roots, the many noises.

Mimicking an insect sounds painful, so he doesn't even try it.

Wingbeats give him another option.

Bright, the dove flew fast over him- and he followed it. Only followed, as he didn't wish to get another faceful of dirt so early on. The trees were tall enough that the bird was flying under their shadows, and he wondered why, almost losing sight of it.

When Gogo is near the point of giving up on his target, the dove lands in some far-away branch.

He approaches it somewhat slowly, panting slightly from the run. It seemed to be roosting for a moment, but closer inspection led to the finding of a well-placed nest.

Focus.

It was harder to feel anything emotional from a bird. He vaguely felt the shoulder strain, the general sensation to be physically light like a feather, how his knees felt bended in the wrong way. Holding onto his many cloths tightly, the boy was able to keep his arms from trying to contort into positions they couldn't.

The dove neared the nest, head always moving to look around. Gogo's neck was not so long so there wasn't much movement as he mimicked it. His throat felt warm and tickly, then, out of a sudden.

Strain. He was opening his mouth, head facing downwards, and his throat did some strain, but something was amiss. This waned the concentration, and he was able to break the remaining connection to look at the bird.

It was, simply, feeding its squabs. Lending something through its beak, apparently. The boy had learned something among these lines before. Could he have mimicked that? Doubtfully, since he didn't.

That was a relief, though; if he vomited that could prove to be way worse than last time.

He supposes it is because the dove must have something he doesn't. Without wings, he couldn't fly, without whatever it was, he couldn't feed squabs. Unlike the time where he did have a bladder and a urethra to do the work.

Gogo was trying to put logic behind it, but he was unsure if there was any actual logic to it. Well, his only teacher had been Marandan, it was a reflex to search for and mull over reasoning.

That wasn't the foremost matter, though. He was still set out to control his miming better.

* * *

He is not after a prey that wouldn't run away. It is the opposite he is searching for.

And the boy finds a most delightful option.

Chippirabbits feel threatened by groups, but rarely by individuals. This one rolled leisurely in the foliage; bunnies love leaves for some reason. Nobody has pinpointed it yet.

Gogo has to approach carefully, at least to get enough time to focus fully on the animal. He crouches low on the ground in mimicry just as it turns its large ears in his direction. Alert like the rodent, he had to try and be aware of himself while still copying its every move. Tricky.

The chippirabbit looked at him with a fixed gaze, and so did he. Ready to flee.

And then he does it- when the rabbit darts off, the boy digs his fingers and heels on the ground, needing plenty of self-conscience and control to keep himself still, even his breaths and disconnect his being from the rodent's.

A minute later, he opens his eyes. The animal was gone, and he was in the same place, fully conscious. It wasn't as tiring as he imagined it would be.

_Always a good student,_ he half-smiled; the memory of the rabbit was stored and ready for use.

* * *

The other animal to run off was a tiny gazelle, leaping high and gracefully as it fled. Gogo had managed to forcehimself off the connection before he mimicked that, but wound up with a faceful of dirt anyways.

* * *

Everything is clearer. Bit by bit, Gogo gets to know what he's doing, where he's going.

When a cobra slithers through his way and raises its upper part menacingly, he attempts to mimic it, some distance back, though it's a bit too painful to just do so; he makes himself stand.

The reptile then hisses, long and loud, daring him to come closer. After mimicking it, Gogo is not too foolish; he breaks away and heads back.

He can still hiss like that.

* * *

The boy returns home starkingly self-aware and amazed. How many days had it been, three, since he first found out about this? Things are coming easier to him- he doesn't need to focus as strongly as before, he could mimic more detachedly. Control himself some. This was fantastic. How further could he go?

Gogo felt the beginnings of that headache. Which wasn't as harsh, this time. He chose to take it as a sign he was truly improving, after all.

The next day, his headache did not render him a boneless worm, so he instead tried to see for himself whether he could mimic anything without using his powers, if there even was a way. Since his mind was hardly allowing remembrance, then would that count? Granted, the boy wasn't bad at it, when he emptied his thoughts. But he was too keen on improving, evolving per se, to praise himself for the feat yet.

_Rest, Gogo. _It's his sanity speaking. But wait, when had he stopped being in synch with his sanity?

* * *

His control is becoming much better; he doesn't need to grab onto anything to keep his arms from trying to be wings, can imitate sounds without having to crouch or contort in any way to imitate positions. Dedicated, he goes through the most animals he can find without getting lost or life-threatened.

Gogo mimicked more leisurely now, as though he slithered into a thought and then let go of it with ease, without as much of the pains and strains there used to be. It was swift and playful.

Colours excite him, and he makes note to wear more of them.

Not even insects are fully out of his league, as he can roughly mimic their wide eyes and precise walk; there's no animal or monster that can slip out of his ability range. So naturally he thinks himself ready, ready for the world of people and their peculiarities.

* * *

The time he does mimic a human again, he wasn't prepared for the shock that came along. It was as though the person he was trying to mimic had opened a book wide ahead of his eyes, and was vaguely talking about her thoughts and pointing out traits of her personality to him. It was vague, yes, but enough to make Gogo feel out of himself. He has to halt his focus immediately to regain the self-control that had slipped out between his fingers.

He had accostumed his mind to the feeling of being out of himself in all those past days. As he learned further control, it wasn't a rule, but he used to be able to feel what the object of mimicry felt, even if vaguely. The other animals had those, but- not in the level of complexity he'd just experienced. They weren't such a... mess.

Back to stake one. He was a student, all over again.


	3. The built role

**Notes: **Lack of free time and inspiration, besides working on other projects, have rendered this trickier to write than it already is, and the more I look at the writing, the less I like it. I hope I am not letting anybody down.

Little footnote: I probably haven't said this, but "Na'am" means "yes" in Arabic, and "Lha" means "no". And I actually don't know any Arabic besides that, or I'd be using it.

Mimicking humans was awfully complicated even if it weren't for their internal peculiarities. After all, they had judging gazes. If he openly mimicked them, it could lead to hundreds of different outcomes, each more unpleasant than the other. So most of the times he had to rely on memory. Gogo would focus on them for a while, as discreetly as he managed, then try to mimic later on when he was alone. This method was more stressful than enjoyable, and he feared he could be making mistakes. At least, when he mimicked by memory, he could no longer feel the person's emotions and personality. Only physicality stood in this lack of synch.

It's a choice, but it's not how he wants to keep practicing. That's when he decides to leave at night time.

At least his parents were not back yet; it would be a nuisance, moreso if he had to answer questions that they might not even ask.

At night, there were locations within the city that were abundant in pedestalled oil lamps, such as the way from the docks to the inn. Other locations, not so much, which allowed many shadowy places to exist where light didn't. A merchant city at night wasn't the safest to be, but in most residential streets it was no different than during day. Unlucky people could well be at the wrong place at the wrong time though.

Gogo hardly left at night in all his life, but if the shadows would allow him to mimic peacefully, and he hoped they did, he was willing to risk it.

Nighttime was kind of funny. The older folk, the people who were cautious and the people who tired themselves out during daytime called it a day and headed inside. Meanwhile, most others with a lot of energy left stayed out in town until they decided to go back home, which could take the entire night for some.

It was an other sort of life.

Gogo didn't feel much comfortable with it, because he knew he could look like a threat in a shady night, with so many cloths and drapes hiding nearly all of him, despite being a rather short youth. He wouldn't like getting into trouble.

With his newfound control, he did have a chance. When people noticed his movements, he could still immediately and they could think the movement a mere trick of their minds. And thus the most he ever felt was wariness in those few attempts.

The question that popped up in his head most, despite the fact he'd only started, was 'when will I be good enough that I may come out of hiding?'

One thing that he had to learn was to completely ignore the emotions that were poured into him when he focused. What use did they have but mess him up further? Normal mimes don't need that, and neither does he.

It was difficult sometimes, separating the feelings from the actions. These humans' personalities were far stronger than his own. They were imposed easily onto him. Of course, it is much easier to swing a fist when he is actually angry, or walk lazily when he is tired and gets the thought of having plenty of work to do the next day, but those aren't his case, a mime is there to imitate and imitate well, not to _be _what he is mimicking.

It has broken his concentration enough to pile up his frustration. Gogo wonders if investing some effort in self-awareness would help, despite his own self being weaker.

Weakness wouldn't push him back, he wouldn't allow it.

For this he practiced in order to make his body able to do anything. Flexibility was supposed to be essential. He focused on himself, as a person instead of a nobody, as this is what he must- if he ever needed to start being himself again, while mimicking, it was on himself that he should focus.

And what a way to learn better about oneself.

One day had given its way to a moonless night. To the more traditional Nikeans, this was a sign they should tuck back into their houses earlier, as though a divinity had wrapped a blanket around the sky and was requesting the citizens to sleep underneath it.

This tended to leave the night for the younger populace, and Gogo would be no exception to that.

His mimicking is toned down, he sits on a deck, just out of light's reach, to not appear too threatening. The young adults are so lively, and he spends more time confused at what focusing gives him than anything else.

But of course, these younger people are passionate in much of what they do, and Gogo winds up reacting as strongly as them- his face flares, his teeth grind, his eyebrows furrow and wag, his heart races, h-... He's pretty sure his body is not supposed to do that. Not like this. But he's thankful that the heat wanes. The difference in blood flows make him dizzy, as the night drags on and more events happen within the vicinity of Nikeah's Port District.

Such waves of strong emotions tire him out quickly, and it soon makes no sense to keep sitting by the sea. Gogo decides to leave and tread along shadows and corners back home. A ghost, perhaps, walking the streets.

Someone else is looking at him, and they are alone. The youth's steps are quick as he heads on, to make it clear he won't mean harm.

It's then that arms wring quick around him, searching and pulling-

He should have been expecting it, how careless- he'd been worrying about looking threatening and forgot there were others that would look past that and prey him instead.

His heart felt a burst, and his mind lost control at this point.

Everything was a dark blur; Gogo teared himself off with arms tense and not his own, then spun, or turned mayhaps. Was that a mirror in front of him?- It wasn't, of course not- but it felt-

The person stood still, wary. His hand hurt. His stomach felt curling.

More movement- Gogo couldn't know who was doing it first, but they moved in complete, undelayed synch- it was probably the robber doing the actions because his own brain felt pretty much dead. It really looked like there was a mirror between them and it was a ridiculous idea.

He punched the air, without meaning to, it wound up making their fists hit. As pain blossomed up his arm, the individual ran off as stealthily as they had lunged.

That was. Ohh. He felt- sick. To his head.

What sort of mimicking was that, even- one in which he copied the exact same actions at the _exact same time?_ That couldn't be something that existed. But he did that didn't he?

Shivers. There was no grand reason why, but this made him feel more like a demon than anything else before.

Only later did Gogo give it thought- he'd saved himself this way. Like the Mu he had copied and bitten, but with a human, this time. This could mean that this ability was of use. Much use.

He is too young for this. But it's too late now.

He finds he doesn't mind.

* * *

Gogo can manage a woman's voice. The high-pitch of young girls, which used to hurt his throat, did nothing but tickle some now. He can manage a man's voice too. Deep, rumbling ones, like the nearest clockworker's. The boy wasn't able to reach those extremes before all of this, as his voice simply stood in the very middle of them and couldn't reach far to either side.

So now, more than before, he could pass up as someone of either gender without much effort. His many drapes and cloths for hiding were a helping reason towards that end, but he guessed it would be difficult even if he wore normal clothes.

Unlike the night alleys, the coverages of his markings were something he would not come out of hiding from.

A fog-tipped morning called him out to the town, where he could, if he willed, have breakfast later, not that his schedule would be too happy with it.

He is an acquaintance of the café's attendant, one of the few people he may trust.

So he needs not be tense when he enters the empty place, which may have just opened for all he knows, and sits down to watch some of the movement outside.

Nikeah used to be far different, his grandfather said. Once in the past, the people here were more intolerant and closed up, but the town's ever-working port and ships and the grand income of foreigners made them open up to become the Nikeans that inhabit the current times.

Everyone was so free-willed. He couldn't even imagine it otherwise.

"Oh! There's my studious boy! How're you doing, little Gogo?" the attendant chirped once he set his eyes upon the boy.

"Fine." It sounded a bit too monotone for one who was fine. That wasn't on purpose.

"And where you been at? You usually come around more often when your parents aren't around!"

Gogo looks at him, at the genuine smile. He can't lie, wouldn't want to.

"I'm trying to become good at mimics. I have been practicing, out."

"Practicing? Any luck with that? Never heard of anyone training up for that, lha." With a cloth, the man started rubbing one of the tables' surface clean.

"It's difficult, but I'm managing." he nodded his head.

"Care to show me that? When you're happy with something, it's because it's good!" Harid commented playfully.

The boy tensed up, pondering the request he was given. Every option within his reach seemed bad in one way or another. After a long while of staring, the boy simply let out a small bark.

"That all you got?" he wasn't scrutinizing, he was chuckling.

A realistic "baaaa" this time. Then, a womanly voice, but this certainly wasn't much coming from him in the first place.

Gogo knew this wouldn't be convincing enough.

"Are you only in for voices?"

"No." he swallowed, "Move."

Harid gave a large step to his side, and Gogo mirrored it without focusing. He let his expectant eyes do the work of leading the man to move around more.

One after the other, a intrigued Harid tried to test the boy through more complex movements; spinning an arm, lifting a leg, making faces, all the three at once. He hardly felt out of balance.

"Haha! You're not bad at this. Say, what will you do with it?"

"I pretend to make it my job."

A double thumbs up was the most heartwarming gesture he's received in a long while.

* * *

His parents had returned. He briefly wondered why they took so long, but his dad's grumbling about the Emperor's pushiness ought to answer it. Gogo had never seen Vector for himself, and rumours place it as a big, ugly and unusual metal-city with too many mysteries. And that the people there are becoming far too ethnocentric for most of the foreigners to feel comfortable. It was unlike Jidoor's stereotypical stuck-up front. Vector was too imposing. Jidoorians had begun feeling offended when compared to them.

As they are back, he quietens. The sensation of freedom to act abnormally wasn't embracing him as it did.

* * *

It's easy, now, for him; when he sees a crow, the mime hisses like a cobra, and makes it run away promptly.

He should be amused by that. He would, normally. But it's as though he has lost some inclination towards emotions. No longer smiles at his own achievements, no longer frowns at bad news.

And, worst of all, he isn't as worried about it as he felt he should be.

* * *

All this focus on mimicking caused the growing boy to nearly forget his other option, that of a chemist. He would become rusty quickly if he did not get back to it; potions were delicate stuff.

Flowers were essential to potion-brewing. Thankfully, their shapes and colours could be quite memorable, so he had little trouble collecting them. Since these 'special' plants grew fairly easily, even in some inhospitable locations, for no yet known reason, shopkeepers felt tranquil about putting high amounts in stock.

Some mushrooms were poisonous. Marandan researchers put it at around 78% non-poisonous species to 14% poisonous to 8% outwardly deadly to humans. Gogo had to know about this, at least to some extent, since mushrooms were important to some chemists. A certain genus could be used to make a Berserk potion, but it was illegal to sell those.

The most useful, though, was a cleaning mixture, which could cleanse his many cloths without great side effects if used with reasonable amounts of water. Gogo was just thankful the plants here were lively and tended to flourish several times a year. Which made the Nikean jungles and mangroves the only ones with hummingbirds bigger than a monk fist.

He's happy to know his parents at least used up all of his acid this time, which strengthens his confidence on the dangerous chemistry.

The boy always tests the potions meant for healing on himself. Maybe he is just hopeful his red lines are a mere disease and can be cured, someday.

* * *

Weeks and months pass by. Gogo shows Harid his improvements when the café is empty and silent, and in friendly turn he receives information regarding the world. People are never tired of amusement in their lives, so Gogo will thrive, it's what the man thinks.

"No business starts if you don't take some optimism with yourself."

He always frets a little over competitiveness, but it's when he remembers he has something nobody else does, and falls silent.

_There are ten towns in the world..._

* * *

"I want you to perform."

"What."

His voice was rather plain, but his eyes were wide.

"Perform, to the people! When this beauty of a café gets filling again, why don't you show them what you're made of? Great training for your future. It's been a very long while since you started, youngin. I bet you're not even seeing anyone when you're not here."

He can't really argue with the man's logic, but he doesn't feel so ready, either.

"There's a lot that those people will want to see. You have to seek those abilities out! Juggling, equilibrating things, imitating iconic voices! Theater stuff!"

"But- I need time for that-"

"Maybe not time, what you need is some help. And I'm here for that." Harid snatched two corks from a decorative cork-filled glass, throwing them at him. Gogo caught them wordlessly. "Juggle those. You know how to juggle?"

"Lha." he felt them along his hands.

"Ah, don't say that, of course you do." before the boy could start an attempt, the man took another two corks and demonstrated the juggling for him. It looked fairly simple.

Gogo began doing the same himself, but without using any of his unnatural mimicking abilities. If it was about reflex, he was certain he would improve it.

"Two is okay, but three's the charm. You have to impress people." Harid had him stop so he could be handed a third cork.

Juggling three required a more precise reflex, but the attendant simply told him to relax, as corks did no damage if they just fell about. And they would fall a lot until he mastered this.

An aged man entered the café as he juggled, and Gogo nearly let them all fall, surprised when he did manage to catch them back and secure them against his body. This earned a toothless smile and a giggle from the client, who gave him a couple of claps in delight.

Gogo glanced at Harid, who with a huge grin waved the fourth cork in his direction.

Challenge accepted.

* * *

His training sessions with Harid went much like this, happening mostly in early morning and late night, the man complaining he should not skip lunch, the café's owner shrugging at what they did, as he would be proud to allege this was Gogo's favourite place if the young man ever did get famous with his tricks and treats out there.

"And dancing, I hope you know dancing?"

Gogo pointed northwards, even though they were inside the building, towards the jungle. "There are Visnu birds, back there."

Harid laughed heartily until he was out of breath.

"No, not mating dances, oh dear, boy, let's learn some moves."

* * *

"There was this guy, such a genious dancer- his nickname was Loborn, 'cause he was a lowborn in Jidoor, parents came from Tzen, but he refused to go living in Zozo and instead captivated everybody! He had been here once, some years back, but he's died a couple years ago. Well-ho; but his moves are immortal."

Harid is clumsy in his steps. Gogo nonetheless gets the idea, and repeats the movements, elaborating on them.

"You're young, you can move a lot." the man chuckled, "Maybe if we get some music playing sometime, you can dance stuff all your own."

* * *

"You're going to catch a cold."

"I'm not taking anything off."

They've been practicing equilibrium, too, and thus came up the well-founded myth of seals being able to balance anything over their muzzles, and then the actual seals came, migrating from the north, and these have been nearly domesticated by the Nikeans through generations, thus more obedient and very willing to do tricks to earn some food. Gogo had taken an empty jackfruit to prove their balance. Trying to mimic a creature with no hinder legs while a pair of steps away from the sea wasn't exactly the brightest idea.

"I'll dry under the sun. Don't worry about it."

* * *

He never truly understood the people, focusing on them or not. Yet it's what he's trying to do, getting to understand them so he can know how to best bring forth their smiles.

It is only after a longer while, after searching out the world within Nikeah itself, that Gogo speaks out, a sweat-soaked mess,"I will. I'll do... the performing."

* * *

He awaits, on his corner. Unnerve grips at him when nothing else will. More people enter the café, delay their time leisurely. Harid sent him occasional glances as though to leave him in expectation, but the sensation that he could burst did not come. It's the emotions, lacking.

Which has a good side, for when the man rose arm and voice to call for everyone's attention, the youth let his throat vibrate and his stance uncurl.

Gogo gave his introduction by whistling like a local bird. Focusing on thoughts would certainly lessen his shyness. The simple imitation was enough to make the general interest stir.

He rose to the stool with a gull's shrill, which came out more accurate than he'd wished. Unnerve does that.

There was an array of memories he could pick up from, but caution was needed to choose. His feet led him to the Jidoorian lowborn's famous dance moves which he'd tried to perfect. His accuracy got the hoorrah that clicked everyone in.

There was only lack of music to mourn, else he'd try and dance for much longer. When his legs ceased he moved his torso instead, hissing menacingly like a serpent, loud to assure it came from him.

With a sleight of arm, he snatched the air and hushed the sound, and when he opened his hand again, the hiss he drew out was the one of a cat. They were intrigued. Gogo let out a laugh, the laugh of a kookaburra. This was a difficult one, and he could sense the admiration in their expressions.

Harid gave some light prods at him with a trio of spoons, and the youth noticed, with a swift nod, what he meant with that.

Gogo took the three spoons and focused on himself to not let his arms shiver, before throwing the first, then the second, until he was juggling them. This was no great feat, not yet. "Harid, give me more." The flexibility would pay off.

With a dramatic nod, the man handed him three more, and it was only a brief pause before they, too, were circling the air. The applauses were encouraging.

Whether this was a good or bad trait, the mime would not decide even in years and years to come, but Harid was a bit too overconfident. He did not bother to ask before placing a small bottle over his nose.

Before he could freak out and lose focus, as though in instinct, the memory of the seal came to him- and soon he was moving his hips and staring fixedly upwards as his body seemed to come in balance with the rest of his arms. This raised an uproar of applauses.

Getting out of it was harder than getting in. He elaborated the catching, giving off dramatic vibes due to being upon a bar stand of all places, then swung the bottle away and into safety.

Amidst mirthful laughter and amusement, he heard a young one asking loudly whether he was a boy or a girl. It seemed to pour expectation on the atmosphere, and Gogo could not think about the question for long before Harid suggested, "Well why dont'ya talk it up to them?"

There's that look on his face, _Take advantage of it, boy._

"Well, how do you guess the gender of a person?" Gogo lowered his voice to a very deep rumble, "Perhaps you wait until they speak," then raised it to a fine and high picth, "and take your conclusions from there."

At this point, it was more than certain he was a gem, and not some untinkered mineral either. Somebody asked him to lower the band at least until his mouth was uncovered, to see if the sounds were truly his- and Gogo recognized that hesitation would brew suspicion. He lowered the band, and as soon as his lips came in contact with the cooler air, he meowed.

It becomes a string- he mimics the next movements of the inquiring person, then the voice of another, and the more participative fellas are eager to request mimics of him, be it a lion's roar or the chitchat of Grease Monkes, though he can't do them all, because he hasn't seen or heard everything for himself. He couldn't, for one, imitate Gestahl, or the chief-sailor of a traveler family's ride. But it does not disappoint them and Gogo is glad about it.

Harid at last pulls him down from the stand, before he can exhaust himself further, and it seems like the end of a theather performance to an extent, but with less mood to it. His throat feels like it was run over by a mouse wearing an armour.

Though dizzy, he could still hear Harid's proud, proud words:

"You're cut out for the job, boy!"

* * *

It's only four days later, yet he on his own initiative got a small pay for mimicking the call of each of the preserved species in the museum. The young children who did get in had plenty of fun with him, getting squawks when he had the feathers of his accessories pulled.

It's thrilling to know that nowhere else in the world would one find a museum or institute that offered _this _to their visitors. All his differences were being noted in a good way.

Someone has called him talented. It's more than he bargained for.

* * *

"Why are you never home?"

Gogo blinked. Was he talking to- "Yes?" he craned his neck towards his father, otherwise remaining as still as a stone.

"You are always out." Stern and swift.

"There are more things to do outside." The mime tried to word it carefully.

"What things?"

"Observing people." His olive green is unreadable.

The father's expression changes to a more ferocious semblant and Gogo goes on edge, wary; it looks like the man is going to spout accusations and more questions and he's afraid of a drastical act like locking him in his room, as had once happened, some unrecordable time ago.

It's when his mother comes in and he doesn't know whether that makes it more frightening or less so, even as she speaks, commands: "Don't look at him." There's an edgy turmoil to her voice.

Gogo obeys it, not willing to keep looking. They never refer to themselves as parents, or to him as a son, nor even by his name, which he still doesn't know if they were the ones to give.

He's not bothered or hurt anymore, just scared.

* * *

Why should he remain in the shadows in dark nights? There was no reason to, and all of him agreed to that. Most of the bounds that shackled people were merely ideas, merely in their heads. He hadn't understood much when the Marandan tutor first said it.

The pub here is lively in plenty of nights. Since people from all over the world tend to traverse the near-port locations, of course many of them would stay up late for the sake of Nikean festivities and even more cultural blending.

Gogo wasn't really allowed here at night for most of his life- law in Nikeah may not be too harsh, but they're not going to let every young'un stride into a place like this, and so late too. But he's no longer that young.

That's one place where it's very interesting to watch people, their actions and words. He can see people from the north, the east and the west, the south, and, naturally, from Nikeah. Their accents and clothes spoke as much.

A bellydancer moved in the middle of the room, swaying hips and arms in practiced movements. She wore a veil over her mouth, as though to reawaken the rusty tradition of using veils to attract different sorts of fortunes, or tell what the wearer was feeling. Bright blue pronounced creativity, dark blue was of mourning and sadness, and so on; she wore purple of lust and dark brown of command, of non-submission.

Gogo is draped with many colours. He is a bit of everything- that's his trade.

He focused on her, on the rhythm of a timeless song and of how she did well in moving with it. The others in the room may be focusing on the delectable sight, but his focus lies on the details of movement that will allow him to do the same.

He wasn't planning to want to join in.

But he is soon standing and moving the same way, hips describing circles and arms adorning the dance with the balance they granted. The youth has to get used to crowds, after all.

Gogo makes it so his mimicry is not too similar nor perfect, and finds himself comforted that his joining isn't being berated or unwelcomed.

The dancer seems to take it as a game and him a challenger, and so they move faster and encircle each other and do not touch, and the expectators are already clapping alongside the beat.

This is so fun- they only stop when the song ends, receiving good response from the crowd. Though some coins are thrown to both, Gogo tries to give his to the dancer, who simply pushes them back to him while shaking her head, commending him on his performance. These are earned, she said.

Bowing to the woman, he swirls out of the room in dance- an actor leaving the stage- and there is no higher confidence in him than as he returns home from that.

* * *

If it's too early, or too late, he can always use his window as entrance to his room. This was one of the highpoints of having parents who pretend you don't exist most of the time- they never call him for breakfast nor do they check if he's sleeping well. Other kids, meanwhile, tend to have their parents' voices ringing in their ears most of the time. He wonders how that must feel.

His parents have become less and less present in his life. When he was a young child, they took care, sure, but as he grew, so did his independence, at the same rate their ability to remember him every once in a while decreased. How would they pay any attention to him, though, when they only seemed to bicker more and more with each other? This was not the sort of "voice ringing in ears" that he wished to experience. Since he was now close to becoming an adult, and his home felt more like a warzone with glares and harsh words being exchanged right and left, Gogo took the liberty to wake earlier than them, take his small share of the breakfast, and go off on his way through the window.

He has long shaken (back, not off) the fact they might also be fighting about him.

It's in one of these mornings that he steps into the Cormorant Café Corner as soon as it opens. Harid greets him with a laugh; "Do you sleep in those clothes?"

"Not all of them." Gogo responds with a shrug, taking place on a chair in his favourite table.

"You're growing, boy. Yet you're always finding new stuff to put on! How're you going to attract some ladies?"

The mime simply looked up at Harid, as though the option was too distant for himself to even try.

"Well, 't least be glad you don't need a face to be recognized."

He's afraid of that, having a face. Even with all of his features except for his eyes and nosebridge covered, stripes can still be seen. What he has learned through his mimicking is that human minds sometimes have resemblance to any other animal's; this unexpected irrationality is what he fears from others.

Aggressive animals would attack him because he's different from them; he fears the same of people.

The Café fares well, and for that Harid manages to lend Gogo a small treat every once in a while. Holding the thin wrist for a moment has him ponder, then ask;

"Do yo parents know of what you're doing?"

"Don't even mention them. It's best if they do not."

He offered an understanding smile. "Those two sure are a handful."

* * *

An archer challenged him, once. Wanted to see how well he could learn. It's one of the moments when Gogo mixes both innate ability with normal attempt.

They await until there is no wind. The archer is slow and precise in his position, so the mime can easily take in every ounce of movement.

When he lets go of the string, the arrow's point buries very near the center. Clapping politely at the archer's feat (he seems to have lost the ability to get impressed- hopefully that's not true), Gogo ceases to focus, awaiting commands.

"That was supposed to- well." The man stood upright, lending Gogo the bow and an arrow.

"What should I aim for?"

"The center." There's some incredulity to that tone.

Patient, the younger man took position in the same spot the archer had taken, and despite being told to aim for the center, he focuses to try and use the same pressure and distance, and for a moment feels as though he is cheating. But this is no competition.

When he releases, the arrow collides with the first one and both fall to the ground.

"There's no wind." he remarks to the ranger's wide-eyed stance, and doesn't really lie as he says that.

* * *

He's proud now. Proud of himself.

It's been years, all passed flying. Seven years that were utterly different from the first eleven he had. He has made something of this inglorious husk, of this nobody. All by himself, was it? Gogo's parents hadn't been of help, and he went by acquaintances instead of friends.

It was a humming pride, tickling at him. If he could make a living out of it, all the better. One more year and he'd be an adult by Nikeah's standards.

For a long while, he has entertained the thought of being able to use his flexible job-to-be to see the world, to go by himself worrilessly and without weights besides his own pulling him down. If emotional attachments were the only thing to worry about, he should do fine.

Would his parents find that agreeable, though?

Perhaps he should do things for them, at least for now. Tasks, gifts. He wondered if it would be of use, or if it would be as pointless as the many offerings the northern plains' people gave to the gods.

His acid mixture seemed like a good present, and brewing a large amount of it was what he would do. Gogo set out early to buy little and gather much of what would be needed.

The jungle welcomed him in with plenty of life, with the many colours that made him feel like he could be part of it. It's among what he will miss if he does leave Nikeah.

As he returned with the ingredients, attempting despite himself to not attract too much attention in these times of right before mid-day, a loud and continuous crashing and cracking sound startled him.

Along with most of the people near their street.


End file.
